


Wild Blue Yonder

by Moorishflower



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-29
Updated: 2011-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-15 05:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's only one Turian in existence who makes him feel the same way as when he's flying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild Blue Yonder

Jeff doesn't like Turians. Can't stand them. He doesn't feel the species-wide kind of hate that's reserved for pure racists, but they're far from his best friends. He feels for them a buzzing, almost annoying kind of dislike, the dislike that comes of never having met a kind Turian in his life. His story isn't as depressing as Alenko's, to be fair, but he's never met a Turian that he liked, and it's colored his opinion of the entire race as a result.

Shepard says that _does_ makes him a racist, but who's the one in the comfy leather seat? Who's the one with the fancy, state-of-the-art ship? Who's the one who's saving the galaxy?

And who are the ones who've been left bitter, stripped of their status as a Council race, grumbling and complaining under the weight of human progress? _Turians_ , that's who. Jeff viciously punches at EDI's mute button, half worried that he'll end up breaking his thumb, but hating her voice - this time a pure, incandescent hate made up of resentment and a pilot's anger over being lectured by a machine - too much to give a damn about his own health.

"Something on your mind?"

Jeff spins around in his chair, ignoring EDI's disapproving glare (and never mind that it doesn't have eyes, he can _feel_ it staring at him). Garrus is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, armor, for once, off. It's so rare to see Garrus without thirty pounds of kit on his back that Jeff is momentarily startled. Who is this? Why are they in his cockpit? And then he shakes his head, and notices the eyes - sparking with wry humor - and the vestigial mandibles fluttering gently. Garrus. Just Garrus. No one else.

"You spooked me," he says, and Garrus glances over his shoulder. It's almost midnight, by Eastern Standard Time, and most of the communications and navigations guys are bunked down. They're running on a skeleton crew, which means that no one notices - or, at least, no one says a word - as Garrus carefully removes his visor and sets it down on the console, then leans over Jeff's chair. He doesn't say anything, just hovers there, breathing in.

They've been doing this for two months. Two months of this weird, almost _sexual_ tension, and Jeff doesn't know why Garrus always comes to the cockpit after every mission, more often than not covered in blood, not all of it belonging to the bad guys. He doesn't know why Garrus seeks him out like this, when it's late - when it's their memory of lateness, because space never gets brighter or darker - and they're practically alone. He doesn't know why Garrus chooses him over Shepard, who's infinitely better looking and probably a lot less likely to insult him by accident.

He doesn't know why he hasn't told Garrus to knock it off. EDI has told him, before, that he's probably lonely, but what the hell does a machine know about feelings?

"What were you thinking?" Garrus asks, and Jeff fumbles behind himself, randomly pushing buttons on EDI's console in the vain hope that one of them will make it turn off. He seems to get lucky - the AI blinks once, as though startled, and then vanishes. It's probably still watching, though. Somewhere.

"Thinking about how much I hate Turians," Jeff says, because his mother taught him that honesty is the best policy, and also? He doesn't give a shit. Garrus knows how he is. They've known each other for a long time, now.

Sure enough, Garrus only laughs. His mandibles brush against Jeff's cheek. They feel almost like bone, but...warmer.

"All Turians? Or one in particular?"

"Most Turians," Jeff allows. Garrus eyes him, saying nothing. Jeff has the stupid and completely irrational desire to reassure him that he isn't _most_ Turians, but...

"What about me?"

"You're not a Turian," Jeff says. Immediately. He doesn't consider the implications of saying such a thing, doesn't even think about it, and Garrus stiffens slightly. _He's standing so carefully,_ Jeff thinks. _Trying not to hurt my legs._ "That's not how I meant it. I just...you're part of the crew."

Some of the tension eases from Garrus' shoulders, and Jeff says, "I'm not good at this. You should go."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a shitty person."

"You're anything but."

"But I..."

Garrus makes a watery, whistling sound, a rush of air between his mandibles, and Jeff realizes, after a moment, that it's the Turian version of Garrus hushing him. Jeff laughs, feeling almost breathless, as Garrus puts his hands on Jeff's shoulders. Those odd, three-fingered hands. "Joker," he says, and Jeff snorts.

"You look like you're about to eat my face. Or kiss me. Either way, I think you can probably call me Jeff."

"Jeff. I...thank you, for letting me...for not telling me to leave, all the times I've come here. Shepard is supportive, but..." Garrus tilts his head, contemplative. "Sometimes all one needs is silence."

"Or mindless talking, in my case."

"Yes. That as well."

Jeff leans forward, until their foreheads are very nearly touching. It's not like standing next to a suit of armor, which is how he usually sees all those spurs and bony plates that Turians have. Sure, Garrus is kind of sharp around the edges, but Jeff can see the scars on the side of his face where that gunship tore through him, all healed skin and pinkish-violet tissue. It's easier to see how vulnerable someone is when you can see how easily they've been hurt.

"You don't care that I don't like Turians," he says, and Garrus laughs. Closes the distance between them until their foreheads rest against each other, and Jeff can feel Garrus' breath against his lips. How do Turians kiss, he wonders? Or rather, how does _Garrus_ kiss, with that hard-looking mouth, and no lips to speak of?

"Why should I care?" Garrus asks. "According to you, I'm not a Turian. On this ship, I'm just...Garrus."

"Just Garrus," Jeff says, and reaches up to touch the curve of Garrus' right mandible. It moves against his fingertips, instinctual. "I can probably get behind that."  



End file.
